Content warning: This story contains references to murder and suicide.

Our modern usage of the term doppelgänger betrays its deep mythological roots.

Often, we refer to doppelgängers as a twin stranger or someone who merely looks exactly like us. But that’s not precisely what it means.

The word derives from German and translates to English as “double-walker.” The first known use of the word was in a 1796 novel by Jean Paul, Siebenkäs, which contains a footnote where he explains the word that he newly coined. In its original usage, doppelgänger referred to a supernatural double of a living person, especially one that haunts its counterpart.

In fiction and mythology, doppelgängers are often portrayed as a paranormal phenomenon and seen as an omen. Other traditions and stories have equated doppelgängers to evil twins. While the phrase “doppelgänger” has German origins, the concept of alter egos or double spirits has appeared in folklore, mythology, and religious traditions across many cultures throughout history.

In Ancient Egypt, a ka was a spirit double who had the same memories and feelings as its counterpart. Norse mythology spoke of the vardøger, a ghostly double who was often seen performing its counterpart’s actions in advance. In many majority Muslim countries, such as Egypt or Sudan, there is the concept of the qarin, which is a benevolent spirit double of the same sex, race, and temperament. In certain cases, the quarin will attempt to persuade the person it is connected to to follow their evil wishes.

I began to learn these things in the weeks after I noticed my own doppelgänger. I had already been prone to paranoia and going down rabbit holes, so this was something that I was keenly interested in studying, though it terrified me.

The previous few years had been difficult. Three years prior to this, my father was murdered during a drug deal gone bad. He had been in prison when I was younger, but I had thought those days were over for him. Apparently not.

I had been an only child, and my mother died when I was five years old. In a sense, I grew up as an orphan because my father wasn’t around much. My paternal grandmother raised me for the most part, but even then, I was seen as a burden and someone to look after, as I stayed with uncles and aunts and never had a settled home.

By the time I turned eighteen, I struck out on my own. I was homeless for a few years before managing to find work in a restaurant and work my way up. That’s when I met Marco. He was around the same age as me, and within a short span, we became inseparable. He was the owner of an Italian restaurant, a small, family-run establishment that he inherited after his parents passed away.

Marco was gay, though his conservative family didn’t know. I, myself, at age twenty-three, was beginning to learn of my own homosexuality. For me, it was not as much a source of shame as it was for Marco. I didn’t have any family that cared about me, so there was no one to turn their backs on me.

Marco wasn’t in the same position. His livelihood and family life depended on presenting a manly image, one that conveyed authority and tradition. So, for the next five years, we would meet in secret, often in hotel rooms on the edge of town in the middle of the night, and we would make love and he would pour his soul out to me.

Marco would tell me that he couldn’t keep up with the pressure of running the restaurant anymore, and he was tired of hiding his true self. I spent many hours consoling him, though I often didn’t know how.

I would suggest that we run away together, maybe head to San Francisco, and start a new life together. He was drawn to the idea, but he could never fully commit to it. It remained a dream, nothing more.

One night, Marco didn’t show up at the hotel. I called him multiple times, but each time it went straight to voicemail. I was worried, but there wasn’t much I could do.

When I showed up at the restaurant the next afternoon, he wasn’t there, but the rest of his family was, which was unusual. His brothers rarely came to the restaurant, leaving the family business to him. People whispered in low tones, and a heaviness hung in the air.

Finally, I asked Diana, a waitress, what had happened.

“It’s Marco,” she said.

“What about him?”

“He committed suicide.”

I imagine my face turned ghostly pale, and she noticed immediately. It was what I always thought. I always imagined people knew something was going on between Marco and me. People pick up on the little things.

I didn’t go to the funeral. Instead, I packed my belongings, left my apartment without notice, and spent the next year traveling the country, living in hotels and sleeping in my car at truck stops. 

Looking back on this period, I realized that was really the first time I met my doppelgänger.

To be continued …

Read Part 1 here